The Window Has Opened
by Missy Mouse
Summary: Can two people live in one body? What lengths will a man go to make sure he really is alone?
1. The House

This is my first attempt at a Secret Window fic. More a trial run than a proper story, although it may develop. All and any criticism welcome: flames will be used to add interest to the story later on. ;)

Title will hopefully change, as this one is pretty awful...

I own only the plot, and that is only an extension of the film. : ( Wish I owned Johnny...: )

The Window Has Opened...

Missy Mouse

Dave Newsome stepped into the lakeside cottage. It was dark. His shoe crackled on broken glass and what was left of the curtains fluttered in the chilly breeze coming off the lake.

"Mr Rainey?"

No answer. The cushions on the sofa were gone. The drinks cabinet was no more than just an empty oak box. Stepping gingerly deeper into the domain of Tashmore Lake's most infamous resident, the Sheriff withdrew a torch and peered into what passed as a kitchen.

The cupboards were literally bare. One door hung off its hinges, waving about gently in the gusts blowing through the shattered window. The tap dribbled water into the metal basin, with a haphazard slapping noise that quite un-nerved him. Flicking on the torch, and drawing a gun, he headed for the stairs.

The dust on the stairs clearly hadn't been cleaned since Mrs Garvey had taken fear of her employer. But there was a trail. Not one set of footprints, but a well used path, worn through the dust. Dave Newsome began the climb.

The desk was lying on its side. The laptop had gone, presumably with the contents of the drawers that dangled precariously from their runners. Shards of glass spread out from the bathroom doorway like a frozen river, twinkling in the banal torch light. Still curious, but becoming less so by the minute, wishing his curiosity _wouldn't_ help him find _anything_, Newsome peered round the bathroom door frame. The mirror was in pieces, half still in the frame, the rest leering his fragmented reflection up at him from the floor. The shower door had a gash down it, leaving a darker hole in the already night–black room. The house was deserted, unless...

The unforgiving light went in first, hitting corners of furniture and shining off the metal bed frame. Newsome started slowly. He raised the light up the bed, noting how the covers moulded, screwed up and finally...

...Revealed an indent in the covers and mattress that suggested someone slept there. Or used to.

"Mr Rainey?"

But 'Mr Rainey' had long since departed. Flicking the light switch caused nothing to happen in a spectacular way. The power had been cut. By the light of the torch, the Sheriff could see that glasses, lamps and all the other household accessories lay decorating the floor, like a bizarre carpet of porcelain and glass shards. As the man retreated from the vacant tomb of a bedroom, a stray gust caught the shower door in the bathroom. Dave Newsome shrieked as the cacophony of tinkling glass rattled the plastic bathtub. Taking the stairs too many at a time and too fast to count, he spiralled, terrified out the front door.


	2. The Creature

Hi! Ok, here's chapter two. Just a word about the rating; basically, although Secret Window was only 12 in England, it felt like a 15. The nearest American equivalent seems to be PG-13. I don't intend to include anything graphic, but just on the safe side....

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People claimed Mort Rainey's house was haunted. But then many years ago, people claimed the world was flat. Those people, unlike the first set, were wrong.

Something was living in the house. It wasn't Mort Rainey. It wasn't John Shooter either.

No, the person who slept in the darkest, deepest corner was certainly not a successful author, nor was it an apparently slow-witted hick.

By day it slept, in a place no one who believed the rumours dared go look. But not everyone in Lake Tashmore was afraid of ghosts. They ventured no nearer than the others; there were worse rumours than ghosts. Rumours of the author, lurking with a stormy pair of eyes behind every door; rumours of a man in a black hat, drawling incessantly in the shadows; rumours of something worse than that.

Sheriff Newsome hadn't scratched the surface, disturbed the dust or uncovered anything, let alone anything useful. No one ever would if they came by day, or evening. Midnight, now that was a good time. Witching hour, and all the rest of the hocus-pocus.

Ten-thirty was a good time.

The creature awoke then. It clutched at straggly blond hair; beat it's grimy hands into its eyes, trying to blind itself against the images in its head. It followed old familiar paths, through the old familiar house, into new and terrifying realms of imagination.

It wasn't Mort Rainey, or John Shooter; it was both.

The first few weeks had been fine. John Shooter was calm, collected; he had a clinical view of everything. He'd stayed on top, filed the paperwork, written some chapters, and acted polite when the police came round.

And then Mort Rainey found himself waking up on the sofa, surrounded by piles of neat, word-processed paper. Everything was clean, precise and orderly. He threw a spindly, ugly-decorative chair at the wall, hoisted a chair leg and set to work.

The paper made a swish noise as it ripped. The glass clattered with a noise like a waterfall. Throwing open the cupboard doors, their hinges groaning in mechanical agony, Mort threw the pans at the walls, through the windows, and at the doors. Smearing every surface with sauce and any other condiments, he scrawled "Shooter" everywhere. He viewed his creation.

_NO! You're proving _them_ right! You're crazy! Shooter doesn't exist!_

"Yes he does!"

_Yes, he does!_

_No he DOESN'T!_

"No, no he doesn't Mort, you're crazy! You're mad!"

"Yes! I do exist! I'm here, see? I'm here, when you get angry, I help you! Didn't you feel calm, organised, _happy_ when I was in control?"

_No! You scare me! Leave me the HELL ALONE!!!_

_No!_

_Yes!_

By this time, he'd reached the stairs. Leaning against the rail, he clutched at his head, drowning in an ocean only he could sense.

I'm Morton Rainey. I'm a horror novelist. I'm not a murderer

"I'm John Shooter. I'm a horror novelist. I am a murderer."

Mort collapsed next to the banisters, burying his face into his hands. He was a good person. He loved his dog, his wife..._to death._ _You killed them, Mr Rainey._

"No!" The tears were finding a weak spot now. Thick, heavy drops slid down onto his cheeks and soaked his hands. "I didn't _want_ to! You made me! YOU MADE ME!"

The empty house said nothing.


	3. The Problem

Wow, three in one day! Arrrg, brain ache. Anyway, I still don't own Mort Rainey, despite my best efforts. Or much else.

Enjoy!

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Down in the cellar, beyond the old furniture and piles of books, was a small room. Built as a waterproof shelter for important objects, it was well secluded. And in here, was the creature's nest.

The cushions padded the floor; bottles of every type of liquor adorned the shelves. The laptop snuggled in at an angle between a pile of clothes and another cushion. Food was heaped in one corner, and precisely stacked in another. And in the middle of it all, curled like a sleeping baby, was the creature itself. It's hair was down to it's jaw-bone, and lank. The beginnings of a beard were on its chin. Its eyes were closed in fitful sleep.

No one came down here. Strange things happened to people who went down into lakeside cottages' cellars.

John woke up. Mess, everywhere, mess! He stacked the cushions and regimented the food supplies. He placed the computer reverently on the shelf. Then, straightening his well-worn dressing gown, he left the room, strode through the cellar, and up into the house.

The place was in disarray. Cursing quietly under his breath, he straightened chairs, shut doors and tidied up his written work from the floor. Some of the pages were ripped and creased badly.

"Well, Mr Rainey, I didn't think you'd go that far."

Sifting through his work, John looked out the broken window.

"Quite a fit you had, Mr Rainey."

John Shooter straightened the pile, and returned to the basement room.

Two hours later, Mort Rainey staggered out into the daylight of his garden. His head hurt, and his vision was blurry. Two piles of earth, each about six-foot long stood out from normal ground level. A few plants had seeded here and there. Mort stared at the smaller one. She was looking back at him.

"I didn't want to, Amy."

It was meant as a firm, assuring statement. It came out as a hoarse, barely audible admission of guilt. His eye caught sight of the other grave. Anger flooded him. It churned through his blood making him feel weak, and that only made him angrier. He didn't so much kick Ted's grave as launch his entire leg at it. Clods of earth spun through the air. It was the work of a moment to heave out the entire contents of a nearby water bucket. Mud, water and a million other life forms spewed over the soil, turning it to mulch. As a final act of defiance, Mort rammed his spade hard into the heap at the head end. He dropped the bucket, and with a self-satisfied glare over his shoulder, he went inside.

The piles of paper were back again.

_How dare he! It's _my_ house! _My_ things!_

_They're his too._

"No, they aren't. Why won't he leave my stuff alone?"

With a stubbornness that defied all belief, he grabbed the wads of paper, and pulled, ripped, tore, shredded and otherwise decimated the paper. Exhausted, he watched the tiny fragments as they settled on the floor. A patch of text caught his eye. Bending to lift it up, he read something he recognised.

"I wrote this! You stole _my_ story this time Mr Shooter!"

Mort rifled through the other, larger chunks. It was all his.

_No it isn't. Shooter wrote it first._

_No he didn't! It's mine!_

_When did you write it?_

_Yesterday!_

_So did I!_

_No you didn't, I did! It's mine, Shooter!_

_It's mine, Mr Rainey._

_It's ours._

Mort lifted his hands. He was once more curled in the foetal position on the stairs. He looked around. It was dark outside. It was dark inside too but that was only as the power had been cut. The empty house threatened to swallow him whole.

"Leave me alone." He whispered.


	4. The Light

Ok, these author's notes get a little boring after a while. Basically I'll tell you if I own anything, which at the moment, I don't.

I'll leave you in peace until such time as I want to annoy you... ;-)

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Dave Newsome returned a few days later. There was a new clear patch in the dust. Third stair up from the floor, next to the railing. There were also pieces of ripped paper covering the floor. Hundreds of stories. Hundreds of words set loose into the cobwebbed corners, the unreachable crevices and the darkest knotholes. They sat, watching the Sheriff balefully.

He conducted another search of the house, in broad daylight, with at least one flood light in every room that the cables would reach. Everyone had a torch, another torch and four sets of batteries. Newsome had a hat with a flashlight on it. The whole force scoured the place with light, feeling safe in the artificial brightness they had created. There was no dark for evil to hide.

No one dared go into the cellar, though.

The floodlights wouldn't reach, and no one was quite _that_ keen on convicting the mad author.

During the afternoon, when everyone was beginning to think things of a nasty nature might actually happen a lot earlier than twelve, and more like four, so they'd better hurry away, someone heard something. The person had been feeling brave and overconfident, and had actually stood next to the cellar door. He gave a statement to the other officers:

"It sounded like a snore, sir!"

So, now there was a raging beast locked in the cellar as well...

They left too quickly to take the floodlights. Newsome's hat was still rolling on it's curved top when John Shooter shut the cellar door quietly behind himself.

"Ah, they would leave their things behind."

The thick Mississippi accent filled the room with a nasal drawl. John Shooter avoided the lights as if they were poisonous. He slipped round to their base, and tugged the wires. The light died, but the thrum of the generator outside continued. Dusting himself neatly off, he turned to tidy away the impurities caused by the less sensible man living there.

When Mort emerged, he could see the flood light silhouettes. Cold, clammy and scared of his own head, he stumbled towards them. Shoving the plugs home, he was temporarily blinded by the beams of light. The light...

It was clean, and so bright it scorched his brain through his closed lids. Inside his mind, he heard Shooter scream.

"Go to Hell Shooter."

Mort stepped out from behind the light and looked up at it. He felt his eyes overload and then everything went black. But he could still see the light in his mind's eye, and he could feel Shooter squirming in agony.

_Stop it you idiot!_

_No._

_Do as I say! For God's sake I told you to murder and you did it! STOP IT!_

"No."

Mort saw the other reflections of himself. They crawled from under the sofa, lounged in the chairs or lunged at him from the empty air. Mort shut his eyes and smiled. The blackness became darker and he could feel their confusion, his own confusion. They weren't there.

He waited until the soreness of his eyes dulled. Opening them produced a thousand different coloured patches of blurred vision, any of which Shooter might have loomed out of. Eventually they cleared, and he looked at his home in cold, brash floodlight. He was alone.

He checked the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. He checked the cellar and the little room off of it. Mort returned to the sofa and shut his eyes. Then after waiting about five minutes, he leapt up, turned to face the light and opened his eyes, wide as possible. His brain screamed at him...

_His_ brain.

_Hello?_

....

_Anyone there?_

...

Completely alone.


	5. Hello, Mr Shooter

Mort felt relieved. He wasn't crazy, he wasn't. John Shooter invaded your mind, made sane people think they were mad. Well, Mort wasn't fooled. Oh no, John Shooter had gone now.

It took a few hours. A few hours to realise how scared, weak and vulnerable he felt.

John Shooter didn't know how to be scared. He wasn't a complete person. All Mort had created was a Mississippi resident with a black hat and a cruel, deliberate nature. He hadn't got feelings, or a soul. He was a picture, superimposed on the world by Mort's overactive imagination. There was nothing behind him, like one of those tall facades you saw on cowboy buildings in the old movies. But the trouble was, you never saw that, were never able to look round the side and see he was just a 2D picture. He turned with you, like a painting whose eyes followed you round the room. John Shooter was _too_ sane. But he wasn't _all there._

Mort never had been good at character development.

It was unnaturally dark outside. The wind was too cold and the trees too tall. Mort was seated on the sofa, in the glaring floodlight. He wanted sleep. He wanted sleep so badly. But the light pinned his eyes open, and he dare not turn it off, for fear of the darkness. For fear that John Shooter would rekindle in his mind, while he was in blissful sleep, only to bulldoze over his conscious self, and lock him away in his own head. No, he couldn't turn the lights off.

John Shooter awoke on the couch. His head hurt, and his body ached. It had been a long night. He'd been patient. Rainey had drifted away into a ghost of a sleep, and Shooter had jumped on his chance. They'd fought for hours. Shooter was weakened by the agony of the light, but Rainey was weaker. He couldn't fully accept he was crazy; there was so much doubt in his head. John Shooter was sane. John Shooter was so sane he was crazier than Mort in more ways than one. He won.

He crawled off the sofa, fell to the floor and scrabbled over to the lights. He could barely see but pure determination drove him on. And suddenly...

_NO! _

_Who the Hell are you? _

_Mort Rainey, you ignorant hick._

_Get the heck away, Mr Rainey. I'm a sane man, and I don't hear no Goddamn voices!_

Shooter lay still. This wasn't right. He was_ sane_! Perfectly sane! Rainey didn't have the imagination to think up an _insane_ 2D picture.

_You're right I don't. But you do._

_What the Hell are you on about, Mr Rainey?_

_I didn't give you a soul, _Mr Shooter;_ I didn't give you any emotions. But I did give you an _imagination.

"SHUT UP!"

Shooter stared around him. This wasn't allowed. Mort was cheating. _Cheating!_

_You're losing at your own game, Mr Shooter._

Shooter ignored the voice, and gripped the lights power cable.

"You don't want me to do this, do you?"

_Oh I'd love you to._

_No you don't! You're bluffing Mr Rainey!_

John Shooter tugged. The lights went out with a fizzing noise. The world turned into one dark hole. John sat in the dark and shivered.

"Goodbye, Mr Rainey."

_Hello, Mr Shooter._


	6. Hello, Mr Rainey

John Shooter wasn't scared. But he was imagining being petrified, and that was worse. Mort had given him a good imagination.

Some people had a stronger imagination than they had personality. Morton Rainey could be said to be one of them. He had an imagination so strong, so _real_, that it talked back to him, advised him; controlled him. He imagined it as a thin-faced man from Mississippi with a black hat. That was what his imagination looked like. His imagination was so strong, he could _imagine it._

If only he could imagine that his personality was the stronger...

John Shooter didn't know how to cope. He was so very good at controlling the antisocial, reclusive author, who meandered about the house begging for inspiration. He gave it to him in buckets, and in return he had a body, and freedom to do whatever he liked. For such a long time, there had been no one inside Mort Rainey's head except John Shooter. Not even Mort Rainey himself. Just Shooter.

John wanted help. At least he thought he did.

_Go on. Ask for some._

_Go away! Get out of my HEAD!_

_It's MY head._

_You died ages ago. You died when she lost the baby._

...

"That shut your ungrateful little mouth, Mr Rainey. I been lookin' after you since then and you never did thank me properly."

Shooter waited. Nothing.

"Well, I just think you should owe me an apology."

John Shooter stood up, shook himself and went down to the cellar. He searched through the food, pulled out a pack of stir-fry, and went back to the kitchen. Pretty soon he felt a good deal more prepared to face the world. Feeling pleasantly sleepy, he wandered up stairs, and fell asleep in the old creaky bed, surrounded by broken fragments of mirrors and vases. The soughing of the wind outside and through the window calmed his nerves and his mind closed for a long sleep.

John Shooter woke up. Yes, he was still John Shooter, upfront and conscious.

"Mr Rainey?"

No answer.

_Mr Rainey?_

...

He smiled and went into the bathroom.

There wasn't much left of the mirror. He recoiled in sudden terror, though, when he saw hundreds of dishevelled looking Mort Rainey's smiling back at him.

_It's just his body._

"Who said that?"

...

John Shooter ran a hand gingerly over his new face. He was no longer the gimlet eyed, stony-faced individual he had been. Shame. It was difficult to be a haunting vision that lingered in the mind's eye with a face like a rebellious choirboy. Or those absurd cheekbones. As for the blond hair... John shuddered violently.

He returned to the bedroom, and flung open the wardrobe doors. He selected a shirt, and a pair of jeans. Struggling out of the dressing gown, he changed, and attempted to drag a comb through his hair. It took nearly an hour to get it looking as good as it was going to get in that disgusting blond colour. Stepping down the stairs with a jaunt, he lifted a jacket from the pegs by the door, and went out into the world.

It was a short walk to the bus stop. Standing there, alone, Shooter wondered if this mental state was permanent. Rainey seemed to have vanished completely. Only his imagination remained.

_Bus is late._

"What?"

...

Shooter looked around. He shrugged his jacket closer. The trees could be hiding any kind of fruitcake or nutcase.

_Nothing compared to what's in your head._

"Who said that?"

Shooter spun round.

_I should say 'who'._

"Where are you?"

_You know where I am. You're not as ignorant as you think I look._

"I don't even know who you are! Let alone what you look like!"

_I look like the rebellious choirboy you're 'looking after' Mr Shooter._

Shooter cringed. He shrunk back against the bus shelter. A light drizzle was misting lazily out of the sky. A mad man was throwing punches angrily inside his skull.

_You're mad Mr Shooter._

"SHUT UP! I can't BE anything! I'm imaginary, YOU'RE CRAZY!!"

_I'm not the one screaming at himself in a bus stop._

"LEAVE ME ALONE! I'm in charge now!"

_No you're not! You're _my_ imagination, Shooter. I can do what I like with you._

"You're imagination's all that's left of you, Mr Rainey. Once I go, you're just a body."

_That's what you think._

"It's what we both think. I _am_ your thoughts. You're dead. Your personality, your _soul_. All that other writer crap you think you had, it's GONE!"

_All a writer needs is imagination. Writer's can do what they like with their imagination._

"Ahh, but look who's up and walking around? Look who can do anything? Look who owns the body? Who's in _control?_"

_I AM._

Shooter grinned widely. He opened his mouth for a witty retort. Nothing happened. His left leg jerked upwards and then he found himself taking a few shuddering steps into the road.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT RAINEY???"

His mind said nothing. Shooter moved toward the bus stop once more. But he couldn't. Inside his head, a very un-Mississippi accent started to hum...

..._This idea, this one's very good. This one's perfect._

Shooter couldn't turn, so he didn't see the car swing round the corner. He heard it though.

"YOU'RE CRAZY RAINEY! SHIT-HEAD CRAZY!"

Goodbye, Mr Shooter... 

...

"Hello, Mr Rainey."


	7. Always Be There

"Hello, Mr Rainey."

White. Everything was white. And clean. Disinfectant. The stench of it filled his nostrils. He coughed, feeling as though he'd swallowed a good deal.

Pain. Lots of pain. Surely you couldn't be in so much pain without being dead?

His cough was caught short by a strangled cry of agony. He fell back on to some pillows that no doubt looked full, while actually were comprised of 90 percent air.

"You had quite a bust up. Good thing Dr. Clarence was in the bus. Good thing the bus weren't too late either."

Mort opened his eyes. Yes. They were _his_ eyes too. And it was him looking through them. There was a very fat woman in a white nurses outfit leering down at him.

"Ah, that's it. I'll give you a bit to see where you are."

She leant away, and the world contorted with her motion as if he was looking through a goldfish bowl. He couldn't see anything clearly, though. Glasses... ah.

He held a hand in front of his eyes. There was a tentacle sticking out of his wrist. A short way along it split into two and joined a fuzzy box covered in flashing lights in the corner. Not tentacles, pipes.

Hospital.

An official establishment.

The Government.

Police.

Mort threw himself forwards. They'd be here soon, questions running riot and waving their arrest warrants. His movement caused a million nails to drive down his spinal cord. A weight pounded him in the chest and for a moment he thought he had been stabbed with a spade. His head felt as though it would at any minute roll off his neck. His brain whirled in his skull. His vision slipped away from him and he collapsed backward.

_John Shooter was standing on the opposite side of the bridge. There was a deep dark hole under the bridge. It looked unpleasant. John Shooter smiled. _

"_You don't know nothing, Mr Rainey. Ever since she lost the baby you've been dead to the world."_

_Mort quivered. He gripped his bridge post protectively. _

"_You needed someone to look after you. And this is the thanks I get for being there? For being there when she wasn't?"_

"_You were jealous!"_

"_What?"_

_Mort let go of his post._

"_I thought I could get back with Amy! I never said anything, but I didn't have to, did I? You were watching my thoughts all the time!" _

"_No, I..."_

"_Yes! You didn't like the idea of me not being free to boss around. Frightened someone might find out you were there! So you made me kill her! And Ted too, heck why not?"_

"_You forget I AM your thoughts, Mr Rainey. You did it because you wanted to."_

"_I'm a horror writer, Shooter, not a murderer. I had a quiet life till you came and..."_

"_Showed you what to do!"_

"_I was happy!"_

"_No you weren't!"_

"_You made me kill my wife! And my dog! MY DOG FOR GOD'S SAKE!!"_

"_You still need me."_

"_No, you know what? I don't. Get the Hell out my life."_

"_I exist in your memory, Mr Rainey. I'll always be there."_


	8. Forgotten

Ok, I'd love to thank Dawnie-7!! My one and only reviewer. Lol. Umm, this chapter may seem a little less like the others. It will return to normal, I just need to get this one out there.

Usual disclaimer.

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Three months. Three whole months of whiteness and disinfectant. Mort concentrated hard on recovery. It was like a far off goal, hovering tantalisingly out of reach. Beyond the corridors filled with coughing and disease, beyond the wards of drugged up humans with nothing new to look at since their arrival. Mort could see it. It was there, he knew it. It was a future, not just a future out of these walls, but one that would be _different_ to his past. Whatever his past had been.

The police came round shortly before his release. They could prove nothing, and the doctors said he was sane. The police left.

It was the night before freedom. Mort lay asleep in his hospital bed. People he didn't know wandered through his head. A worn-out looking man in a black hat leered at him. Another man with brown hair, stuffing a burger of some description shot him a dirty look.

There was Amy, his Amy, smiling and half leaning out of a small square window. Mort felt himself smile back. Then, the man with the burger lifted Amy away from the window, and the man with the black hat stood in front of Mort.

_Let me see!_

He heard a voice, far off, but it was his.

"...I'm sure her death will be a mystery, even to me."

Screams, followed by an unpleasant sound, rather like a blunt object colliding with a body at speed. Then again. Mort was suddenly aware that he was looking through the black-hat man's eyes. He didn't like what he saw.

"AMY!! I DIDN'T WANT TO!"

Mort was awake, cold sweat dripping down his forehead. The doctors were outside.

"...Screaming in his sleep..."

"...He was talking to his wife..."

"...She's been dead for months. Mysterious circumstances..."

"...The Police did say that he..."

The door opened. Mort had his back to them. He was sane enough to know what was coming.

"Mr Rainey."

The voice was soft and velvety. It caressed the ears and made you feel as though you were being given spa treatment. Mort rolled over.

Three doctors stood in the room now. At least, two were doctors; the third looked like something off a catwalk. Blonde, long eyelashes, ruby red lips and legs an athlete would be proud of. Yes, she had all the traditional garnishes and fixings. If hers wasn't the luxurious voice, Mort was crazier than he thought.

The other two both looked tired, worn out and were giving 'I'd rather be anywhere but here' vibes. The man was short, fat and ugly, no more to it. Mort was mentally noting down every feature for future stories. He was going down as unfortunate victim No.2.

The accompanying girl was easily a volunteer for unfortunate victim No.1. The hair was auburn and scraggly, her figure nothing to write about, let alone 'home', and her general body language wishing Mort would curl up and die and save a lot of trouble. Under her pond water gaze he wished he could. He'd heard of "eyes so dark and beautiful you could drown in them". This girl had eyes that reminded him forcibly of a badly maintained duck pond.

"Mr Rainey, my name is Dr. Hatfield."

The model unfolded a hand at a leisurely pace toward him. Mort watched it suspiciously. She had black and white striped nails.

"We've come to inform you about a transfer. We feel you'd be better off in another hospital."

Mort's mind had given up dealing with boring things like "What is she saying?" and "Where am I?" It was putting all available energy into sight.

"Yes, ok."

"Excellent. Dr. Carlton will be looking after you in your new home."

She waved a hand vaguely at her apparent underling, the woman with the duck pond eyes.

"Good bye Mr Rainey."

And they were gone.

Lake Tashmore's Psychiatric Hospital was large, and ugly. Mort assumed glumly that as a patient he'd only see the outside once. He knew with dead sure certainty he wouldn't be coming back out.

He wished he knew who the two men in his dream had been. His brain knew them from somewhere, but more than that it wouldn't let him remember. He didn't care any more. Amy was dead, they told him. Died mysteriously, they told him.

Body never found, Mr Rainey. Very likely to be _murder_, Mr Rainey.

We found a dead dog too, Mr Rainey.

_Who would want to kill Amy?_

"Any enemies, Mr Rainey?"

"No enemies, sir."

They lead him through so many corridors he was lost. The doors were made of metal bars and wires. _Cages, keep the mad ones locked away._

"This is your room, Mr Rainey."

The door banged shut. The heavy, steel door, with lots of bolts. And that was it.

_Go to Hell Mr Rainey, you're a mad man._

"I'm hearing voices, maybe I am a mad man."

A few hours later the lights went out. Mort Rainey slept. Mort Rainey dreamed...


	9. Remembering

Ok, apologies for the "Christmas Carol" – ish bit here. Kinda necessary. I think. Lol. Oh well, it might spook someone out...

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_Hello, Mr Rainey._

_Who are you?_

John Shooter, Mr Rainey. Don't you remember me? 

_No._

_No, that _was_ a nasty accident _we_ had._

_We?_

_Us, Mr Rainey. You and me._

_Who are you?_

_I'm your imagination, Mr Rainey. That little stunt you pulled with the car, you was trying to forget me._

_What?_

_Oh yes, you really don't remember. Nothing about your wife and Ted? _

_Who? Who's Ted?_

Well, now let me see... 

...Mort was walking. He was heading for a motel door, through the snow. He rammed the key into the lock, opened the door.

Blinding red mist. Anger. All he could see through the hate-ridden filter of his mind was his wife, _his bloody wife_ and another man. In bed.

Mort heard screaming, yelling. Hard, yelling-till-you-can't-breathe-anymore yelling. It was him screaming. He felt his hand drop to his trouser pocket and his fingers curl round something cold and made of metal...

_A gun, Mr Rainey. _

...

_Mr Rainey?_

_You're making this up._

_No, it's all here in your memory. I'm just replaying it. There's a lot more, Mr Rainey..._

...He opened the front door of his cottage. A tired, worn out man with a black hat looked him square in the eye.

"You stole my story, Mr Rainey."...

That's me. You remember me? 

...

_I know you do._

_Leave me alone, Shooter._

_Ahhh, I knew you did. All coming back to you now I imagine? Do you know what comes next?_

_Don't..._

...He was looking down at Amy. She was lying, transfixed with terror on the ground, outside the back porch.

"MORT!!!"

"Mort's dead."

Mort fought an urge to be sick as the memory of himself lifted the spade and...

_You weren't very nice, Mr Rainey._

_Why did you have to come back? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE?_

_Ok, Mr Rainey. Goodbye._

Mort lay, awake and shivering in his 'cell'. The last few years of his life awoke from a previously dead part of his mind, reincarnating in crystal clear perfection in his mind's eye. He tried to stop it, to think of something else. There was _nothing_ in this hole of a room. Four walls of second hand cement and a bulk buy carpet and bed. The light was something out of one of the less select prisons.

_Rather like a motel room..._

"Die!"

_What? Like your wife?_

Mort took a deep breath. He shut his eyes and his vision was filled with black. Involuntarily, it zoomed away from him, becoming a hat. John Shooter's face appeared beneath it. He stared at Mort out of the back of his own eyelids. Mort threw his eyes open.

For a second he swore he saw Shooter looking down at him.


	10. The Theory of Imagination

Ok, quick warning about language in this chapter. If anyone thinks I should raise the overall rating, please poke me forcibly in your review. Because you will review, of course. ;-)

By the way, what does 'hiatus' mean???

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When morning came, tossing a little extra light in through his window, Mort was still awake. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be awake, either.

He just wanted to _exist_ in a semi-state of living, where Shooter couldn't reach him.

Days went past. Mort followed a little routine. He concentrated so hard on little things like; "looking out the window" or "folding the covers".

He blocked Shooter out for the whole day. Everyday. But at night...

Mort didn't 'wake up screaming' anymore. He went to bed screaming, spent all night in feverish terror and crawled out of bed each morning shaking with guilt and panic.

On the fifth day, Dr Carlton walked in.

She straightened her clipboard, tucked her hair behind her ears and looked at him.

Mort looked back.

"Well, Mr Rainey, I've heard some interesting things about you."

Mort stayed silent. He wasn't going to deny, admit or even _say_ anything to a woman who charged into the room of a murderer with _that_ sort of expression. It was one that had seen it all before, and could only be shocked if someone actually wanted to cooperate.

"Not inclined to talk are we?"

"You seem to be."

He couldn't resist. She shot a look of pure, distilled hatred at him. Mort let it bounce off his blank look. She continued to stare.

"I heard you shouting last night. Who's Shooter?"

Something went _twang_. Mort felt his cleverly built wall of self-defense collapse like an upright jigsaw. Dr Carlton raised her eyes to his suddenly trembling features.

"Who is he?"

Mort gulped. He, Morton Rainey, widower of Amy, and horror novel author wanted to tell her. This nice, understanding woman, who'd give him a load of 'intoxicating substances' for his 'condition'.

_Eat that Shooter._

_I don't think I want too._

"I don't know."

_WHAT? Why the hell did you do that, you crazy Mississippi farm boy!_

_Same reason you got us hit by that car, pilgrim._

"I see."

She stood up, and crossed to the door. Mort felt a desperate urge to grab her by the coat and yell it desperately to her like a man conveying his final death wish. Shooter rooted him to the bed, daring him to move.

Carlton was halfway out.

"Wait!"

Don't you do it, Mr Rainey...

Mort took in more oxygen. Couldn't she see how he was struggling? Couldn't she see the pleading, begging look in his eyes?

No.

_Get over all that author crap, Mr Rainey._

"I have other patients to see. Goodbye."

Mort threw himself face down on the bed. His hands screwed the cotton sheets into rivulets and mountains.

Why? Why do you hate me so damn much?

_Because you stole my story._

_It's yours! It's mine! WE'RE EXACTLY THE SAME PERSON! That's what you keep saying._

_You changed the ending._

_I KILLED MY WIFE!! I KILLED HER FOR YOU, YOU SHITHEAD! I CHANGED THE GODDAMN ENDING!_

_What more do you want? WHAT??_

_WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?_

_Shooter? Are you there?_

Mort lifted his face. The pillow was soaked with tears. Amy, Amy, Amy. He'd murdered his _wife_ for some psycho voice in his head. And his dog. His faithful dog.

And Ted too.

_Screw Ted. I'm glad I killed Ted._

Mort said that aloud too. No, if it came down to it he would admit _that_ in court.

"Hell yes, sir, I killed him. I got him a good one with a spade."

Mort wanted to write. Maybe he could write a happy story, in which the convicted horror novelist escaped all hospitals/courts and other such establishments to fulfil a happy existence with a nice woman called Dr Hatfield.

It was late, and it was dark. Mort knew he was mad. He was so mad he couldn't imagine being sane. He also knew he wanted to write. And he knew why. If you looked at it, writing was just a way of putting your imagination down in cold, hard print. It couldn't escape, or hurt anybody.

If you kept it locked away in your head though...

There was an awful lot of the human brain, and no one knew what most of it did...

Imagination, Mort realised, needed to be caged. If you bottled it up, it got dangerous; it started doing strange things with you. Maybe if he could write enough of his out on paper, it would get less and less until he was a 2D person like Shooter, with no emotions.

_Even I have an imagination, Mr Rainey._

"Maybe you're borrowing mine."

Mort smiled.


	11. Imaginary Black

"Wakey wakey, Mr Rainey."

It was the voice of someone who wasn't accustomed to saying 'wakey, wakey'. Dr Carlton was leaning over him.

"Wha'?"

"I've come to see you."

Mort sat up. He was fully dressed in a crumpled T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Dr Carlton was neat and prim. She watched him attempt to shake his hair into vague semblance of being brushed.

"Why do you want to see me?"

"I want to hear all about John Shooter."

Mort blinked at her.

"I can't understand Morse Code."

She smiled. It was a thin lipped, awkward smile. She obviously stored smiles up and only used them in nanosecond blasts of very little oomph. Mort continued to stare in disbelief. She _wanted_ to know about Shooter? The crazy bitch could have him.

"He's this guy I made up, and now he basically _is_ my imagination."

It was as good a start as any. Mort decided there was no way to explain about Shooter. Even he didn't know. He waited for the bored, 'oh-you're-a-schizophrenic-murderer' look to come into her eyes. It didn't. She looked up expectantly and gestured for clarification.

"Well, I guess I just, found it easier, to you know, be somewhere other than reality when..."

Mort stopped.

_What Mr Rainey? When? _

_Shut up._

_When SHE LOST THE BABY???_

"Mr Rainey? Are you ok?"

She sounded so like Shooter. Apart from the accent.

"Please, look, call me Mort."

Dr Carlton dropped her clipboard. She stared at him, mortified. Good word, thought Mort, dryly. Her mouth opened and closed several times. Eventually she managed a high-pitched, noise, wavering like a dodgy radio signal. Dr Carlton, pale enough usually, now looked like a corpse that had spent an abused life at the bottom of a river into which factories deposited overflow. A 'death mask' would not have been strong enough to describe it. There could be no blood in her head.

"What? I just asked you to call me by my first name. It's just, Shooter calls me 'Mr Rainey' all the time..."

He broke off as she raised a long, white, shaking finger at his shoulder.

"Hello, Mr Rainey."

Mort began to turn. He heard a pathetic gasp noise as Dr Carlton fainted and lolled onto the floor. Then, his peripheral vision caught it.

The edge of a brim of a hat. In imaginary black.


	12. Visions

Hi! Back, finally. And, good grief! THREE whole reviewers! I will keep writing this for you guys/girls seeing as you bothered to review it.

While I'm not sure dedicating a chapter from a psycho horror story is an apt thing to do, I would like to dedicate this to the Tsunami and Earthquake victims. I only wish there was some way of raising money from fan fiction. Rest in Peace.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was dark outside.

Mort stared.

_I'm still here! We can't _both _be here!_

"Hello, Mr Rainey."

Shooter stepped down off the bed. He reached up and removed his hat. He held it out to Mort.

"Take it."

_If you take it, you know what'll happen._

_Don't listen to him! Listen to _me

"Mort…"

It was a distant, muffled voice. Dr Carlton was blinking alternately at him and then Shooter. Shooter glowered at her and drew back his hand…

…_And suddenly it was Amy, cowering below him on the garden soil. A heavy, reassuring spade in his raised grasp…_

And Mort Rainey saw a vision of what _might_ have been.

And John Shooter smiled a ruthless smile.

_And Amy Rainey saw her soon-to-be-divorced husband, heard her gibbering lover, and knew that this was_ it.

And Julie Carlton stared up at a man she knew wasn't there, knew didn't exist… _A man she never wanted to see again._

Mort, like a man in a vat of toffee, reached out, and took the spade he knew wasn't there, and knocked the hat out of Shooter's hands. It skidded to the floor, and Shooter swiped out at him with his now spade-less hand.

Then he was gone.

"That was Mr Shooter."

"Oh."

Dr. Carlton picked herself up, and straightened her hair. Her hand shaking, she wrote something on her clipboard.

"I think we should start treating you for schizophrenia…"

"You saw him! I'm not crazy!"

"Goodbye Mr Rainey."

And out she went. Mort flopped back onto the bed, grinning. _She'd seen Shooter!_

The next day, a fat man waddled in. He had a handlebar moustache and a bald spot.

"Mr Rainey?"

"Yes?"

"As you know, you've been assigned Dr Carlton as your doctor. She will visit you daily for the foreseeable future. Her visits will start today… Dr Carlton?"

And in she came. Mort stared. First visit? She looked down her thin nose at him, over small, rectangular lenses.

"But, she saw John Shooter! She was here yesterday!"

The fat man smiled kindly, and whispered something to the doctor behind his hand. She scribbled something down on her clipboard, and he waddled out.

Mort looked up at her, confusion, and doubt beginning to rage in his mind. Maybe he was crazy after all.

"But, you were here, right?"

She peered over her lenses again, and bit her lip. Mort gripped the edge of the bed, feeling the floor shifting beneath his feet.

_I am crazy. I'm a complete fruitcake._

That's right. 

"I'm really sorry, Mort."

His head shot up. She'd remembered, therefore she had been here yesterday.

"I wasn't supposed to be here yesterday."

"Then why were you here?"

She dropped herself onto the hard wooden chair in the corner, and gave him a long, sincere look.

"Because I heard you screaming. No, no. I heard _what_ you were screaming."

"So?"

"… I know John Shooter."

His voice was dry and cracked, scarcely believing his ears.

_Don't listen; you're a mad man, Mr Rainey._

_And you're an imaginary voice in a mad man's head._

"How?"

She shifted rather uneasily, for a mental doctor, Mort felt, and avoided his gaze.

"It doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm here to help you get through this mental problem, so…."

It was the desperate, wide-eyed stare of a man who's been pushed over the edge so many times he'd come back. Dr Carlton watched him like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Tell me. Please."

She's lying! How can she get rid of your imagination? "I don't think I should h…" 

"No!"

Mort was on his feet, hands on the back of her chair, leaning over her, barring any escape possible.

"Mr Rainey!"

"Don't call me that!"

He stepped back, feeling his heart clamouring from escape from his ribs, pounding its way to the outside world. His breathing was sharp, and stinted. His fingers worked at the air by his sides in desperation.

"Look, please tell me. I can go home to my house, wife and…"

Mort could imagine the look in his own eyes. Horror, disbelief and shock. He sat on the bed, feeling ice trickling into his bloodstream.

"Your wife is dead, Mort."

"I know."

_I know._ _I know you stupid bitch, I killed her!_

"SHUT UP!" 

Dr Carlton leaped in her seat. Mort pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing hard.

"Sorry, sorry, I wasn't talking to you…"

"What?"

"It's Shooter, he keeps, talking to me."

Dr Carlton stared at him.

"What? You saw him. He's real. Sometimes he takes over. I don't know why he's there! I don't want him there! He made me kill my wife, my lovely, beautiful wife! And then he torched my house!"

Mort felt the entire group of events threatening to overwhelm him. If it did, Shooter would be there, slipping happily into control and doing all sorts of evil things with Mort's body and DNA. He knew it.

"What could have triggered this, Mr Rainey?"

"Please, don't call me that!"

"Mort! Sorry, Mort."

He rested his head in his hands, and watched the world outside the window. Somewhere out there, people were getting married, living happily ever after, having children…

"…Amy, my wife… ex-wife, she…" he took a gulp "lost our baby."

The silence seemed unfittingly normal. He'd expected horror, pain, but all he got was a feeling of closure, of having said it, and it being out there, not eating at him.

Then something did happen. Dr Carlton stood up, put her clipboard neatly on her chair, and sat down next to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I know."

"Really?"

"Hmmm. And I know something else too."

Mort blinked. He felt salty liquid splashing against his eyelashes. He raised a hand to wipe the tears away, hoping that Shooter wasn't paying attention in this moment of extreme vulnerability.

"What?"

"I know a way to make John Shooter go away."


	13. HalfWay Sane

Apologies for the delay!

Ok, well I think I have this mapped out till the end now, so hopefully updates might be more frequent. (A pig flies past). Well, we can hope. All four of us.

I still own nothing from 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' the book, or the film of same. Although Mort would be nice.

She didn't return to the cell for a week. A whole week Mort spent, alone in the cell. Nothing to do but stare at the walls, no one to talk to but John Shooter.

That is, if John Shooter had deigned to appear.

Mort spent the entire week alone.

Completely.

Alone.

It was driving him insane. Maybe Shooter was right. Maybe he couldn't look after himself. He spent most of his time asleep if he could manage it. God knows he'd managed it before in that damn cottage. But now, sleep escaped him as wakefulness used to. Tucked against the headboard and the wall, gazing diagonally out the window, was his default position.

_I want company._

…

_Anyone there?_

…

"Anyone out there?"

But psychiatric-cell guards are taught not to answer the pleas of the clinically insane. Never answer the mad people; they might not be talking to you.

But Mort would talk to anybody. He was coming to a slow, painful realisation. He was completely and utterly sane.

_And I can't stand it._

Being mad makes the world easier to deal with. You can live in your own little bubble of insanity; acting like a clown all day, or murdering people and then conveniently forgetting. Whatever floats your boat. It doesn't matter whatever happens in the _real_ world because, Hey! You weren't there!

And now reality had finally pierced the misty bubble of Morton Rainey's mental state. He was finding it difficult to cope with. He could see things clearly. He could look back on the unnerving memories of his bewildering past, and remember just how confused he felt. It hadn't mattered then. But good grief did it matter now. A sane man in a mental institution. Ironically the best place to be driven mad in.

And no one would believe him.

Only the _really_ mad ones thought they were sane.

So he was stuck.

It was Sunday night. Or maybe Monday night. Days went by as a nameless cycle of lukewarm food and daylight, followed by crisp, cold bed sheets and utter darkness. However long Mort shivered and tried to warm up himself and the sheets, they still remained cold and icy. The only tactic was to warm up in the meagre sunlight by day, and curl up in bed fully clothed every night, preserving the scanty body heat locked between his skin and his clothes. For all the world like some desert lizard.

Mort didn't feel as calm as a lizard. His head felt too small for all his thoughts, fears and paranoia's. Being sane was hard work. But it was work he was willing to do if there was just the tiniest chance he could escape this concrete hellhole.

_A happy life, writing soulless romantic trash for the masses, married to Dr. Hatfield, and living in a big town house in a new neighbourhood. _

The dream.

_Growing old in this cell, watching life go by in seasons outside. No one listening or trusting you. Recurring visits from John Shooter just when you need to be sane._

_Recurring visits from John Shooter full stop._

The nightmare.

However alone he got, John Shooter was not the answer. No, he must rise above it. Win favour with the Ghostly-Girl Dr. Carlton, and escape to a life of fast cars, loose women and trashy but money making writing. To Hell with artistic integrity.

She did come though, that 'Ghostly-Girl'. Paler than ever, with her thin pointy nose and mouse-like face and hair. It waved in flyaway strands, flouncing round her as she walked, giving her a halo every time it caught the light. An angel of salvation.

"Good morning, Mort."

She seemed to have difficulty saying his first name. She couldn't think of patients in number terms either though. Always Mr, Mrs, Miss or Ms. First names were too _personal._ You couldn't get that involved. If anything bad had to happen… well it was best you kept a clinical distance. Humour them. Don't make friends. You never knew when your friends would be taken away.

But Julie Carlton wasn't a numbers girl, either. She was a woman of letters. _Experiment A vs. Experiment B._ Letters, not numbers. Numbers were just words squeezed into another sort of letter. They couldn't name anything. No, everything was just _words. Words, Words, WORDS!_

_Words are easy to manipulate…_

"Morning."

Today he was alert. Ears pricked, eyes shiny, glossy coat. He'd even made some effort to brush his hair. For today, he felt, was the day. Step one on the Morton Rainey ladder to rehabilitation.

"So, how do we get rid of Shooter?"

Dr Carlton, who had regained some colour since sitting down, paled again. She seemed to Mort to be terminally nervous.

"Well, I think first you should agree to the use of medication to help prevent the schizophrenia you experience…"

And Mort's ears stopped listening. He wanted advice, not chemicals to shut him up.

"No!"

She leapt in her seat. He looked at her, imploringly.

"Look, I want help. Human help. Not some intoxicating rubbish that numbs my brain from dawn till dusk."

"Mr Rainey…"

"Mort"

"Yes, Mort. I have to act professionally, and so…"

"So that's the answer is it?" Mort clenched his teeth, imitating her in an impossibly high, girlish voice; "I know a way to get rid of John Shooter!" He stood up. "Bullshit!"

Dr Carlton flinched once more. She hated making people angry. She also knew, from experience that people in Mort's state of mind should not be made angry. It triggered off the nastier side.

"Mort, I think you should calm down. This will only make Mr Shooter stay longer."

Mort, who had started breathing rather too hard, and feeling a little ill at all the sudden adrenaline in his blood, sat down once more. There was a dizzying sensation behind his eyes. What was worse was that he could feel the long dormant consciousness of Shooter blinking, yawning and stretching in the back of his skull.

"Tell me how you make him go away."

"Well…"

Dr Carlton glanced at the door. It was thick and made of steel. There would be a man on the other side, beginning to wonder where his elevenses were. Most importantly though, he'd pay no attention to what she was saying, if he could even hear.

"Well… You, see I've had experience of this sort of case before."

"Really?"

"Yes. And, well, ummm. There is no permanent cure."

Mort had known this was coming. Somewhere, he must have. Maybe Shooter told him. It was like accepting an awful truth. Swallowing a big, leaden cannonball, frosted with ice._ Maybe I could pretend there's a cure…_

_Sure you could Mr Rainey. Just like you pretend you're gonna get out of here, like your gonna marry that blonde woman in the stilettos._

"SHUT UP!"

Dr Carlton looked away. She scratched a few marks in pencil on her clipboard, and folded her legs. Mort had his eyes screwed shut, his hands squeezing the edge of the mattress till his knuckles were white. Occasionally she'd see his lips move, and sometimes he'd actually speak.

_You got a good imagination, Mr Rainey. I'm a regular masterpiece. Maybe I'm better at running things than you are now? Didn't you make me up so you could pretend things were normal? I think maybe you're the 2D person now._

_You don't exist! _

_Don't I?_

"NO!"

Mort's eyes flew open, just in time to see the world slip sideways.

"Mort? Are you ok?"

He was lying on the floor, the side of his head throbbing where it hit the floor, and chest pumping up and down like a set of bellows.

"He's not, is he?"

"What?"

"Better at being a regular person than I am?"

Dr Carlton didn't answer. She knelt down beside him on the floor, and manoeuvred his broken glasses from his face. He watched her, wondering vaguely whether he should just let Shooter get on with it and start living inside his own head.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Give in to him. Also you should really learn not to think out loud."

She smiled again. It took effort. It was a smile that was really trying hard to make its wearer look happy. It almost managed it, but she still looked nervous.

"So, do you want to know how to get rid of him?"

"You said there wasn't a cure."

"Not a cure exactly. More a way of dealing with him. Sometimes, though it can be a cure."

Mort glared at her.

"What?"

The smile redoubled its efforts.

"He's your imagination, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, imagine he's not there then." _That's what I did._

Mort's eyes glazed slightly in remembrance.

_You got a good imagination, Mr Rainey._


End file.
